Second Star to the Right
by Lithium Junkie
Summary: Peter Pan never wore black nail polish. Or listened to Bauhaus, for that matter. Welcome to the world of the Angel of Childhood's End. [A small collection of ficlets surrounding the character of AJ]
1. Time to Go

As you've likely guessed from the summary, this would be a collection of short little ficlets surrounding AJ. They're the result of a prompt trade with the lovely Green Amber, from whom I rather shamelessly stole the title of this collection.

Here's hoping these four little pieces manage to either surprise or delight. Perhaps even both.

xXx

**There was a boy, a very strange enchanted boy, they say he wandered very far, very far.**

This moment is crystalline in its clarity. He smells the salt as he wades out deeper, deeper, deeper in to the water, and would even swear that he can taste in the air. It's acrid, it's horrible, but there's something so real and defined about it that he welcomes it in his own way.

Despite the late hour, the water is warm. It's almost pleasant as it soaks through his clothes and in to his flesh and in to his bones, like stepping in to a patch of sunshine. Sunshine, however, doesn't fill your lungs and force you to scream out in futile agony, since no-one can hear you in the first place as you fill with more and more water, which just makes things worse since you feel like you're burning and bursting and dying all at the same time.

He should know. He's done this whole drowning thing before.

His pensive solitude is interrupted by the sound of gulls screeching, piercing the night as they cry out their refrain of _leave this place, leave this place_…

I'm working on it, he wants to tell them. He remains silent with the knowledge that they wouldn't listen anyways.

He's up to his waist now. In a rather cavalier gesture, he dons the jacket he's had slung over his shoulder this whole time – a strange action that reflects normalcy in a twisted sort of way. Human habit dictates that we put a coat on before we leave the house; why not to leave this mortal plane?

It's as he disappears beneath the waves with eyes closed and lungs ready that he swears he can feel someone watching him.


	2. School Days

**Where are you going, where are you going, can you take me with you, for my hand is cold and needs warmth, where are you going?**

The little girl is five, and pretty in the manner of porcelain dolls. She sports golden curls, blue eyes, and a thinly-drawn set of lips set permanently in a smile. Her name is Suzy, and AJ has been watching her for some time now.

Suzy clutches her mother's hand on a crisp September morning as they stand outside the school on her that to her child's mind looks far larger than it is. Where her mother, a vaguely professional thirty-something with an ulcer and a mortgage, sees a rather small elementary school in a quiet neighborhood, Suzy sees an imposing prison set in a world far bigger than she is.

"I'm scared." She whispers, but her mother is too busy chatting to a client on a cell phone to hear her daughter's soft words.

A lanky young man, who can't be any more than seventeen or eighteen, is seated on a bench nearby. He's out of place in black clothing and silver jewelry, his hair spiked and piercings in places that most people would find them a little odd. He watches this scene critically, his scrutiny only growing more apparent as Suzy is shooed towards the school playground.

Suzy looks miserable. She's nervous, scared, and has no idea what to do.

The young man rises, approaching the trembling girl with a warm smile that's at odds with his chosen attire. He crouches down in front of her, and she takes a few cautious steps back. She's been warned about strangers.

"It's okay." he says, and from somewhere (or is it nowhere at all?) he pulls out a slim volume inscribed with the title _Snow White._

"For you."

Suzy approaches him cautiously, and receives the book with a combination of awe and gratefulness.

"I like this story." She says, and he smiles.

"Me too."

"SUZY! Get over here!" Comes a harsh and cutting voice. It's her mother, who does not like this strange man.

Suzy obeys, leaving the gift-giver behind and returning to her mother. Once more at her mother's side, she's met with a tirade.

"Honestly, Suzy. I thought you knew better than to talk to strangers. If I--"

But the man in question is gone, and Suzy is clutching the book too tightly to really care.


	3. Take a Picture

**Time flies leaving behind f****aded smiles in a photograph.  
**

There is a picture in AJ's room.

It's hidden somewhere amongst the Bauhaus CDs and the Ann Radcliffe novels that he can't seem to throw away, between the sticks of eyeliner and the occasional knife that would look right at home in a museum.

The picture itself features two boys, and is surrounded by a silver frame that's been allowed to tarnish. The glass has long since cracked, and the photograph itself is yellow and ragged with age.

The subjects are eerily similar. Both sport dark hair, dark eyes, and identical facial structure. They wear the same clothes too, quintessential eighteen-fifties gear – long coats with tails, high collared white shirts, and top hat gripped tightly in their hands.

You would not be able to tell them apart save for their smiles.

The one on the left has something bright in his smile. He seems the sort to laugh at anything and everything, a child of caprice and whimsy. There's an energy to him that speaks to being ready to up and fly away without a moments notice.

The one to the right has a touch of the condescending to the upward curve of his mouth, and appears to be suffering from a bad case of ennui. His smile is more a smirk than anything else, and more likely than not at something horrid.

There are names scrawled on the back of the photograph for anyone who cares to look. Adrien and Damien Crandall, 1854.

It's been a few years since that photo was taken – a few lives in AJ's case – but the only thing that's really changed is the clothes. Those smiles remain, as bright and as condescending as ever; but they have never been captured in the same photograph since.


	4. Irresponsible

**Help! I need somebody. Help! Not just anybody. Help! You know I need someone.**

Lacking any and all semblance of responsibility has its advantages.

For one, no-one ever thinks that you'll step up to the plate and do anything about anything. This in turn means that you're never expected to in the first place.

For two, you can do precisely what you please without it being held against you with a _you should know better_ lecture, because you really and honestly don't.

No one expects anything of you at all.

Which is why it's the perfect cover.

Reading books to the Beebos, running with them, fishing, climbing playing – it all fits perfectly with the careless nature of irresponsibility. It _is _irresponsibility, truth be told, but it hides a greater purpose. All of it is secretly aimed at helping the Beebos escape and live real, proper human lives and to experience all that goes with them: love, hate, sickness, health, joy, sorrow, and even death itself.

But all it looks like is mindless games. Irresponsibility.

And that suits you just fine.


End file.
